


never pegged you as a swordsman

by bylass



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Married Couple, Pegging, Post-Game(s), Post-Time Skip, claude "respects women smart as all fuck GETS PEGGED" fire emblem, it's tender and cute AND chaotic horny, plod the clod, swordfighting and banter and spice it's all you need
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-31 06:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21096833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bylass/pseuds/bylass
Summary: Claude is too sexy with a sword but Byleth spares a thought for how he can improve and, as usual for the queen and king, things get carried away.He straightens into a combat stance. "Shouldn't we use training swords?""If you're a coward."





	never pegged you as a swordsman

**Author's Note:**

> me, a few days ago: *checks the pegging tag* That's not enough I'm writing one-- 
> 
> Thanks to onelonecandle and falcine for holding my hand as I asked them questions about writing smut, sometimes I'm babby. I didn't have to use the word 'hole' after all.

Byleth glares at the bedroom wall. Something's off. She left the palace furnishings alone ever since moving in, touching little except for the desk in the study and the bed she falls into after the day's work. Nothing, especially, should have moved around in her bedroom. The only people who go in there are Claude and the routine servants.

Her eyes focus on the mantle and a suspiciously empty space. It clicks: The Sword of Begalta is missing.

Claude had retrieved the blade during their jaunt to the Sreng desert (very dry, too much sand, angry dragon—would not recommend). He had handed it off to her, but useful as it is, on most days Byleth prefers the heft of a regular silver sword. The Begalta has its bursts of protective magic, but Byleth prefers her weapons to be inert and not spontaneously shiny, thank you very much.

After the war, when Claude urged her to make herself at home in the Derdriu palace, she wanted to make some sort of visible effort at it, so she stuck the sacred sword on the mantle—the limit of her interior decoration skills. She had forgotten about it since.

Thankfully, Byleth finds that it hasn't gone far. She tracks down the thief in the training rooms, opposite a combat instructor, stripped down to his shirt and breeches—none of that puffy fuss, as much as she likes using it for a pillow. His sleeves are rolled up, muscles on fine display as he circles the pit with a dancer's grace, the Sword of Begalta in his grip. (Those dance lessons had been an excellent investment; seven years later and Byleth is still seeing gains.)

He pushes forward, teeth grit as blades clash. He's _good._ He was never this good during the war; he didn't have the time to train up on the sword specifically. But he clearly has some hidden talent they both missed.

Going for a tricky advantage, he gets it, forcing the instructor to yield before stepping back with a flourish. Better than good, he's _gorgeous,_ Byleth thinks as her breathing spikes loudly enough to be audible. Thank the goddess—herself, that is—that she married him.

Another round is over too soon and Claude ambles over to her with a swagger and winking gaze and kisses her cheek; only then does she realize her mouth is slightly agape and closes it. "Thought I could use a hobby... you know, on top of the million other things I have to get done," he says, flipping the blade over in his hands. "It's too pretty to collect dust, don't you think?"

_You're too pretty to collect dust_, some inane part of Byleth's brain declares. She yanks Claude down by his shirt front, muffling his _"Urk!"_ with her mouth.

She's worked open most of the buttons separating her from him when the instructor, still in the room, clears their throat aggressively enough to hawk up a lake. Tongue still down Claude's throat, Byleth grumbles. That instructor was specifically selected because they weren't afraid to beat up a queen and king when they needed some sparring, but at the moment she regrets the hiring choice.

"If you'll excuse us," Byleth says curtly, dragging her sweaty, preening husband back to their bedroom.

  
::::

Byleth begins taking lunches in the training room to watch Claude fight, lounging in the shadows with her tiny smile. Claude always shows off once he glimpses her, which of course makes him _worse_ at whatever he's doing and often earns him a light stabbing from the instructor. Sometimes Byleth spars with him herself, but she has to use her offhand and even then, he's never a close match.

So, he could be _better._

"You need incentive," Byleth says through her chew of an apple, "to improve faster." She's been watching him try acrobatics that are as appealing to look at as ever but less useful on the field. Not that they plan on any wars anytime soon, but you never know. She sees every step where he falters, every flick of movement that would betray him in the heat of battle. Even if this is just a hobby, she'd been a professor; she _has_ to correct.

One eyebrow of his quirks up, lewd but well-founded, considering what they'd done around the palace. Claude loosens his ponytail and reties it. "What were you thinking?"

Tossing the apple core aside, Byleth draws her own silver blade from her sheath. "We'll spar some more." The room is empty save for them, and from what she knows of the training schedules, it'll stay like that for about an hour. Good.

He straightens into a combat stance. "Shouldn't we use training swords?"

"If you're a coward." She rolls her shoulders and cracks her stiff neck. The nights doing paperwork are doing a number on her, worse than any combat. "If you can draw blood, you get to kiss me."

"That's it? Just a kiss?"

"You don't get to kiss me _until_ you can draw blood."

He stares blankly, then sputters, "Wh-what—ever again?"

"Yes."

"But—but _I'd like to be able to kiss you again._"

She frowns. "Do you have that little faith in your skills?"

"No, I have _too much faith in yours._" He looks truly, terribly stricken. It really, nearly softens her.

Nearly. "You'll improve. Again, that's the point of an incentive."

Claude tries to lean in for a kiss anyway, pouting as she threatens him with the tip of her sword. He loves a challenge though—that's the real motivation. To Claude von Riegan, former leader of the pluckiest territories, schemer of miraculous plans, wrangler of impossible hearts—there's always a way to win, no matter the odds. Stepping back with a grin and sigh, he flourishes his own sword. "Well then, _shall we dance?_"

The circle each other. Count five paces. Then lunge—blades meeting with a ringing clang.

He puts in an excellent effort—at first. He clearly wants this over quickly with so he can kiss her again. But he exhausts all his tricks and diversions after a few blows, and Byleth blocks and predicts them all. Meanwhile, she's taking her time cutting slits into his shirt where she wants a better view. Widens his collar by an inch. Slashes off half a sleeve. Those arms are a national treasure.

A knit forms in Claude's brow as desperation sets in. But she always has faith in him, even when he doesn't have faith in himself. She doesn't ease up.

When his shirt is nearly in rags, Claude switches to the defensive, capering out of reach. "Byleth." His voice drops to that purr he only ever uses in private, the one that lets her know that he's at her mercy, that she can make a king kneel without lifting a finger if she wants to. "Can't we change the terms?"

"No."

"I'll do anything you want. I could... cook you a private dinner."

"You'd do it anyway if I asked."

"_Naked._"

She sidesteps. Slices off his other sleeve. "That's dangerous."

"Says the woman who just tried to chop my arm off." He ducks her next swing. "I could get on my knees. Say a little prayer to the only goddess I know."

"Oh?"

"I may not be a religious man, but I'd worship her any way she likes." Claude can't distract her like this, but Byleth enjoys the effort anyway.

"The goddess requests that you beat her in a sword fight."

The next noise he lets out is equal parts fond and exasperated. "I'm glad that you're determined to see this through and that you believe in me, but I admit I may be growing desperate."

"I'm using my offhand." It's good practice, actually. And after the bout of sloppiness, Claude's been predicting her moves better, so it's been good practice for him, too. "You can do it."

"You're just too wonderful of a fighter, my love," he laments, but his eyes are bright and his sigh is happy. "Still—can't despair when you look like that."

"Huh?"

"Your smile. It's cute."

_Oh._ When their eyes meet before trading blows again, Byleth finds not the clever king nor the charming scoundrel, but her besotted husband who's paying more attention to the look on her face than the hold on his sword. She knows before her feet hit the ground that she isn't going to land steady.

So her next strike is a little off-angle—

Her opponent's gaze glints. His sword flashes, etching the barest nick on her shoulder—

Claude slams into her, throwing their weapons aside. "_Gotcha._" His mouth finds hers in a triumphant laugh.

Their teeth knock together, Byleth's own snickering making a mess of the kiss, but they find their fit soon. When she grips for purchase, she pretty much tears off his shirt, which had been hanging by threads. She reaches up instead. Frames that grin of his between her thumbs. "Flirt," she scolds.

"Lucky I'm handsome?"

"Mmm. Very."

His lips have a tang of salt and the space between them grows humid. They're both burning hot from the exercise. The way Claude is panting from the fight, Byleth can't help but think of how he looks the same when he's underneath her red-faced, gripping her hips, begging her not to stop. The rush sends her body arching against his, the damp between her legs no longer just sweat.

"Ah—" Claude ducks his head to kiss the scratch of a wound he'd given her. His hand slips down her shorts at the same time. "Already?"

"Before someone comes in." She wriggles to give him room—it's always a little awkward out in the open, thrill or not—but he urges her backwards first, pinning her against a pillar. Wrapping one leg around him, she has the leverage to give him a better angle as he slides in one finger, then a second, all the way in.

"Hah—" She loves the first rough feel of him when she's still adjusting. He knows the spot she likes, stroking deep, need against need. He's stretching her waistband, possibly ruining it; only fair, she supposes, for what she did to his shirt and she's not about to tell him to stop when her whole body winds as tightly as a snare trap. "_Clau—hah—_"

Tongue darting out, he licks his lips, as if drinking up every flutter of her lids, every heave of her chest. She grinds against him harder, pulling at his hair until his ponytail falls loose. They have time. Byleth planned for this, after all—not specifically this, but close enough. With how her husband looks in the sparring pit, it was only a matter of opportunity before they got carried away.

"Greedy today, huh?" Claude nuzzles her neck, kissing a trail up to her ear, nipping the lobe as if playing to be the world's most handsome earring. "Ah, but this isn't fair... I had to _earn_ my kiss—"

Her eyes snap wide open. "Don't you _dare_—"

But he does, maybe to be contrary or to take revenge for denying him earlier, but all that matters is the ache when his fingers leave her. He sucks the wetness clean with a _pop._ "I can do more than that, but it's only fair that you have to beat _me_—"

Byleth shoves him away and picks up her sword. Immediately wildly regretful, Claude only barely scrambles for his own blade when she starts swinging—_low._

"First of all, I was going to say _at archery,_" he wheezes, shuffling back. "Secondly, that was too close to areas that should never know a sharp edge—_yeek!_"

She slices his pants clean off.

She charges at him, shoving him down onto the padded brawling area; then she's straddling him, her hand collaring his throat.

"You're also cute when you're all worked up and you don't get what you want," Claude gasps through her grip. "Cute may not be the right word..." Meanwhile, the man is still gorgeous, and unfairly so, whether in command of a deadly weapon or laid out like a beautifully muscled feast, naked and at her mercy. His cock presses hard against her stomach, completely undeterred by being nearly sliced off.

As keen as Byleth is to just sink herself onto him and ride him until he forgets how to form words, she has other plans. "Stay here," she commands, and she knows the fear she just instilled in him will make sure he'll listen.

"Wha—"

She goes to her knapsack that she kept discreetly in the corner when she first arrived to watch Claude train. With a shake, she takes out a wood-and-leather harness, along with a bottle of oil. It took time to track down luxury goods after the war, but when Byleth heard rumors of a craftswoman who specialized in intimate instruments, she sent a small army of attendants to find her—and just two weeks ago, they did.

Already near the training room doors, she also shoves a chair underneath the knobs. There's no lock from the inside, but this should be good enough. Anyway, people who ran into them like this generally just... walked away. Royal perks.

Claude cranes his head up when she returns to him and is struck with a blush that would make roses envious. "My love, why do you have that?"

"You said you wanted to try it. I had one commissioned. Here, put this underneath you." She throws him a cushion. Sitting down, she oils the wooden shaft.

"_Now? In the training room?_ Wait, you had this ready. You _knew_ I'd—"

"Be cheeky?" Byleth hums. "That's your own fault." She strips off her shorts and pulls on the harness, fitting the smaller knob inside her easily; she's still plenty wet. The wooden end jutting out seems massive now that she's looking at it slung between her legs.

"I see you told them to be, ah, generous. My love, are you sure that will f—_fuuuh_—"

She slides a finger in him, and really, it feels like cheating to see how fast that makes him lose all coherency. Then slides in another and considers a third finger, since it's such a large harness. Claude grasps at the mat deliriously, as if digging for something he can't find, and he's moaning something like her name or "_Iloveyou_" or it could be the national song for all she knows; it's the essence of it that matters, which is that he likes this a lot.

_That should ready him_, she thinks when she removes her fingers and settles into a kneeling position between him, but he startles and snaps his legs together, pinning her in place.

Oh. Maybe she overestimated. "Do you not want to? We don't have to." She wasn't surprised when he mentioned wanting to try some toys, but she isn't surprised he's reconsidering, either. He often seems overconfident so he doesn't appear cowardly and has a bad habit of processing nervousness as a weakness rather than a completely normal feeling. The fact that he quietly lets her see that side of himself is something she holds dearly.

"N-no, I want to," a conflicted-looking, heavily-breathing Claude stammers. "I need a moment."

"Take your time. I know you don't like surprises, but—"

"No! I love surprises—actually, no I don't, never mind. But I like _good_ surprises. I just... usually don't get those. Complicated. But." He's blathering now. Inhales deeply. Glances between her and the wooden toy between her legs. "I trust you." He brings her clean knuckles to his lips, kisses the ring sitting just below—not the first ring he'd given her in the Goddess Tower, but the heirloom he retrieved from Almyra after the war. At its center is a stone that matches her eyes perfectly—"_As if I needed any more signs that meeting you was fate,_" he said back then.

His legs free her and now _he's_ the one being cute, with that smitten gaze and his lip between his teeth, and Byleth realizes belatedly that maybe it's just because she's smiling again, and any excitement she has, Claude mirrors.

"Tell me if you want to stop," she says.

"Okay. Yeah. I love you_hhhhff_—"

She's already easing in slow and steady though maybe just a touch too eagerly, but it's taking every bit of restraint as pleasure blooms across her husband's face. "All right?"

"_Holyshit_—keep—keep moving."

"Wasn't even all the way in yet."

"Wha—_ngh—guhhh_—"

She plants the most delicate of kisses on his knee, slung over her arm, as she sinks deeper, and the last inch just about steals all air from his lungs. Claude is firmly wordless now, but his mouth shapes something like a plead for more and his hips rock up, so she begins fucking him in earnest.

Every tremble that skitters down his body sends a shudder straight through Byleth, and she's trying not to grip his thighs too tightly or she might break skin. She lets her head fall back, lets the rhythm guide her. The harness feels good too, but it's moving against Claude that makes it feel _amazing_, that gives her that ticklish buzz in her veins that'll lead to her coming because she loves him that much.

He's back to babbling gibberish again, peppered with murmurs of her name, but he finds the strength to reach up, skirt his hands up her scarred abdomen, pushing up the tank top she still has on. Bending over him, she thrusts a little shallower as he squeezes her breasts. She wants him to take them in his mouth but he can't from this angle, so maybe tonight, because they can never have enough of each other.

"You—you like it a lot," Byleth gasps as his hands knead her. Claude looks so good—he _always_ does, but not like this. Sweaty and scrabbling, his hair flung over his face in damp strands, an utter mess but an ecstatic one, who wears his smug grin even now because he loves _her _that much. When his green eyes lock on her, it just about counts as worship.

"Ye—yeah—_goddess—Byleth—_"

Before she gets too dizzy, she remembers his cock, erect and untouched between them. His whole body jerks when she takes hold of it.

"If you—" he sputters. "I'm gonna—"

So of course Byleth grabs him fully, because whenever she finds a new situation in which Claude is at her mercy, she needs to gauge exactly _how much_ at her mercy he is. He's rock-hard and probably seconds from coming if even a breeze touches him, so she just pumps him slowly as she thrusts all the way in again. Doesn't think about chasing the ache between her legs as much as keeping hold of his gaze.

His panting sharpens and hitches into loud gasps, and his body ripples with the effort of holding something back, but this is a battle he's always going to lose. "By—_I'm—_"

Byleth knows he won't last the sentence, and it happens all at once—her edging the harness against the spot that gives her release, and Claude spilling all over her hand. She has to prop herself up to make sure she doesn't just fall on top of him.

As their breathing slows, she guides the harness out of him and herself. Wipes them both down with a cloth, then lays next to him on the mat with a contented sort of exhaustion. This is exercise she could get used to. Turning to cuddle Claude, Byleth pecks his cheek as he stares at the training room ceiling dazedly.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. "Love you."

"Love you, too." She rakes her fingers softly through the fuzz on his chest. "That was nice."

"Nice is... a word to describe it."

"Try-it-again nice."

"Oh, yeah." He sounds a little more like himself. Clearing his throat, Claude smiles at her and curls a hand around the back of her neck. Pulls her close for a kiss. "Love you so much."

She breaks into a wide smile against his lips. "I'm pretty fond of you, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"Just a little."

"I'm going to pay you back, you know."

"We'll see."

They could probably lie there grinning and gazing for the next century if the world left them alone, but right on time, the doors begin to rattle against the chair Byleth had stuck there.

"Right," she mutters, feeling around for her shorts. "Should get dressed."

Claude only stares at the heap of his cut-up clothes and falls back onto the mat. "My love, next time, though... can we skip the swords?"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to use this to propagandize my claude opinions: he's a top-leaning switch, not a bottom-leaning switch.
> 
> Find me [@bylass_ on twitter](https://twitter.com/bylass_)!


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